


Bruises That Won't Heal

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Peter have their first bad fight, and then some pesky drug dealers get in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises That Won't Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song, "No Surprises" by Radiohead.

Peter shook his head to clear the dark edges away from his vision. He realized he was sitting, in a chair. He must have been out longer than he thought. He tried to straighten, found he couldn’t. His arms were being pulled behind him. Someone was tying his hands behind his back, and he realized he had about five seconds to do anything about it. He began to struggle, tried to kick backwards against the floor, dislodge the chair, his captor, anything to put them off balance. His efforts were rewarded with another punch to the side of his head and he saw stars. But didn’t black out – thankfully.

The man behind him pulled his arms back again, savagely. Peter cried out; it felt like his shoulders were being pulled from their sockets. He tried to focus: what had Caffrey said to him about slipping bonds? He should’ve paid more attention at the time, but he was too busy being exasperated and dismissive. He’d have to take Neal more seriously from this point on. He had useful skills, after all.

Wait, he remembered – every millimeter counts. Give yourself as much room within the bonds as you can, and you can use it later. Ropes and zip ties are easier to get out of than cuffs. He tried to turn his wrists out, balled his hands into tight fists, flexing the muscles, anything to gain a little room. The man behind him didn’t seem to notice. Good.

The man behind him grunted as he finished with Peter’s hands. Peter chanced a look at him as he moved forward, began tying his ankles to the chair. It was more like a glare. 

“You try to kick me and I’ll break your arm.” Peter growled but kept still. The man bore down on the leather cords he was using, ensuring they were tight. Then he stood.

Peter watched him straighten to his full height.  The man was like a mountain. Huge. Had Peter really tried to take him? Sometimes, Peter acknowledged, he could be really stupid. “Boss’ll be back soon. I’m sure he’ll want a word. Figure out what to do with you.” He left.

Peter rolled his eyes. How the hell had he wound up in this position? He’d only come here to question a witness and stumbled onto – what? Drugs? Gambling? All he knew was the guy started wailing on him the second he flashed his badge and he didn’t even have a chance to draw his weapon. His weapon – crap, he was sure that was gone now and it was his uncle’s old P9, dammit, why was he carrying it today? 

Weren’t these the kinds of scrapes Neal specialized in? He was thankful, at least, that the younger man was out stewing in the Taurus. Peter had enough to worry about right now without having Neal in the mix; hopefully when Peter didn’t return he’d call for backup.

Peter forced himself to stop thinking and just relax, one of the few things he’d picked up from that damn stupid yoga class they’d made them all take at the department retreat last year. He concentrated on loosening his muscles, first in his shoulders and arms – not easy given their position – then his neck, back, chest. He took a deep breath and then tried to move his hands. There was a little give – not a lot, but enough to shift the position of his right hand, which was below the left, out a little. The cords were wrapped multiple times around his wrists. If he could only get his thumb out a bit, he knew that was the key. Perhaps if he stretched and pulled, the leather would stretch as well.

If only he’d let Neal tie him up, show him how to do this. At the time he thought he didn’t want to give Neal a chance to mock him and his efforts, hated to give up even that little bit of control, even to the man he considered his partner and now, so much more. Now he realized Neal's reaction at the time was one of hurt, not anger. He’d just been trying to show Peter that he cared about him, about his safety. It was kind of sweet, really, Peter thought.

He thought he heard voices, far away and on another floor of the building, but even so, he doubled his efforts to get free. He didn’t think sticking around to see what “the boss” said would be wise. He continued moving his hands against each other, pulling and stretching the cords, pulling and stretching. At last he was able to get the first knuckle on his thumb underneath. He twisted his wrist, stretching, straightened his fingers, flexing. One more centimeter…another and with one concentrated pull he wrenched his thumb free. He winced – he’d lost a patch of skin just now, he was sure – but his thumb was free. It was a matter of a minute to pry the rest of his hand loose.

He sighed with relief, allowed himself a few seconds to ease the strain on his arms and shoulders. Then he bent forward and untied his ankles, got to his feet and – fell to the floor. “Goddammit!” His feet had been tied so tightly he’d lost circulation and, temporarily, the strength below his ankles was for shit. He grunted and got back up, stumbling as the pins and needles flooded his feet.

He found the door and listened – nothing. He opened it and looked out into the hallway. Left, right – no one was there. He spotted a door at the far end of the hall and headed for it. It was the stairwell. He looked up and looked down; he heard voices coming from below so he decided to head upwards – up toward the roof and freedom. He moved as quietly as he could.

\----

Neal sat and moodily fiddled with the radio stations in the Taurus, looking for something that wasn’t annoying. He checked his email on his phone; nothing new. He briefly considered following Peter into the building across the street, but decided against it. He was still pissed off at Peter and thought some distance at the moment would be the wiser course. Something caught his eye and he looked over at the driver’s side door. There, tucked into the pocket was today’s NY Times.

Neal grabbed the paper, located the section he needed and started in on the day’s crossword, in pen. It was a Friday, so he knew it would be one of the more challenging puzzles and that Peter would be annoyed with him for doing it.

He had it half done when a sudden noise made him sit up, alarmed. He looked toward the building intently, wondering if his mind may have been playing tricks on him, when he heard it again: the unmistakable sound of gunshots.

He pulled out his phone and hit a button. “You have reached Clinton Jones…” It hadn’t even rung. He sighed exasperatedly and hit the next number on his list. “Berrigan.”

“Diana, thank God. Listen, Peter’s –“

“Neal, you there? I can’t hear –“

“Diana?”

“Neal? You there? Did you ass-dial me again? Neal?”

“Diana!” he shouted into the phone, but she’d already hung up on him.

“Seriously?” He yelled, showing his frustration. “For once I try to do it right,” he ranted, and hit the next number on his rapidly-shrinking list for these kinds of situations as he got out of the car.

 “Reese Hughes.”

“Sir, it’s Neal. Listen –“

“Caffrey? How did you get this number?”

“That’s not important now, sir.”

“The hell it’s not. Am I going to have to talk to Burke –“

“Sir, please!” Neal nearly shouted. “I’m with Peter at a witness interview. We got separated and I just heard some gunfire from inside the building.”

“Oh, well OK then. What’s your location?” Neal told him. “Listen to me, Caffrey, stay put. We’ll have NYPD out to you in just a few minutes.”

“OK.”

“Stay put and don’t do anything stupid. Help is on its way.”

Neal rang off and it was all he could do not to go running into the building anyway. But without knowing Peter’s location, he didn’t think he could be of much help. Suddenly, he noticed movement on the roof of the building. It was Peter, running across the roof, and not far behind him, a couple of thugs, guns blazing. Peter picked up speed as he ran towards the edge.

“Peter Burke, you are _not_ – “ Neal breathed, as if Peter could hear him, but Peter, in fact was. Jumping. To the next building, an apparently abandoned warehouse. He landed on his feet and rolled. Neal lost sight of him.

“Shit!” Neal muttered and, rushing to the driver’s side of the Taurus, he released the trunk catch. He pulled his lock pick case from inside his jacket as he strode back to the rear of the car. He had Peter’s gun safe opened in less than a minute, grabbed the Sig Sauer 9mm he found there and a magazine that he slid into place with a click. He slammed the trunk closed and ran across the street as another shot rang out.

\----

Peter lay on his back where he’d rolled to a stop, panting. The air conditioning unit of the building he’d jumped to was providing temporary cover, but he knew he didn’t have long. If he could make that jump, so could the two (younger) men pursuing him, he reasoned. He tried to get up and his vision went white as a searing pain blossomed in his right ankle. “Fuuuck,” he breathed, rolling onto his side, clutching at it.

After a minute, he was able to pull himself to his hands and knees. He looked around him. Straight ahead, no more than a dozen yards, was the door to the interior of the building. If he could get to that, he’d be able to hide, get away. He crawled as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain in his ankle, knees, hands, and was soon there. He reached up to try the door handle, and found it locked. Adding insult to injury, he was spotted by the men on the opposing roof, who began to shoot at him again. He rolled aside, taking shelter against the door’s structure, to think about his next move.

Which was, admittedly, extremely limited, and mostly involved getting shot at again, some more. How the hell had this happened?

This was supposed to be a routine witness interview for their latest case, a suspected incident of industrial espionage at a software firm. Since the company was a contractor to the FBI and other LEOs, Peter and his team had been assigned to look into it. Peter and Neal were on their way to interview the company’s information security consultant at his loft in a converted warehouse in the meat packing district.

On the way, Neal, who’d been showing a surprising affinity for technical issues lately, suggested a way that the company’s firewall might have been breached. Peter, for no reason other than he needed to be right, he supposed, discounted the theory out of hand. Neal protested, saying he’d read a recent article in a cyber security blog. Peter snarked – and it made him flinch to remember his hurtful words, “Oh, when the Bureau starts taking technical advice from people who don’t even have a high school diploma, I’ll let you know.”

Neal was stung into silence. Peter apologized immediately, but the damage was done. They rode the rest of the way in silence and Neal had refused to accompany him into the building.

Now Peter was glad he’d gone alone, even if he bitterly regretted the reason it happened. He hated to think what might have happened had Neal been with him, couldn’t bear to think of Neal being hurt by these people, or worse. Couldn’t bear the thought of Neal being hurt, period. Which begged the question: what drove him to say what he’d said?

But he didn’t have time to take a guilt trip right now. Right now, he was under fire on the roof of an abandoned building in lower Manhattan. Right now, he had to figure out how to get himself out of this mess.

\----

Neal skidded to a halt at the corner of the building Peter had entered, pressed himself to the wall and looked up. The men who had chased Peter were leaning over the edge of the roof, waiting. Waiting for Peter to show himself. Neal didn’t know if they’d attempt the same jump Peter had; the distance had to be at least 20 feet and the one guy looked to be about the size of a linebacker. Or two.

He held Peter’s gun against his thigh and scanned the area. No one was around. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He looked up, saw the big guy leaning over, pointing to where Neal surmised Peter was hiding. Both men raised their guns as Neal dashed across the space between the two buildings, spun, squared his stance and drew a bead on the closest man. He got a shot off before Neal could take his own. One, two quick squeezes on the trigger and Neal marveled at the responsiveness of the weapon. There was a shout as his second shot found its intended target and the man reeled away from the roof’s edge. Neal heard rather than saw the man’s gun land in the alley.

Neal looked up. Neither man was in sight. He kept his gun trained on the roof and called Peter’s name. There was no answer. “PETER?”he shouted.

“Neal?” came the answer and Neal allowed himself a sigh of relief. Neal's eyes darted along every visible line of the building’s roof. Peter’s pursuers were nowhere in sight, and he hoped that meant they were laying low and not scurrying down to the street.

“Hey, buddy! I’ll hold these guys down so you can get outta there!”

“Door’s locked!” Peter called down. Neal looked up, saw his partner’s head poking out over the top of the roof.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Can you climb down? There’s a fire escape ladder over there.” He jerked his head toward the iron ladder hanging off the corner of the building.

“There is?” Peter’s head disappeared as he checked it out, reappeared a second later. “So there is. OK, I’ll try. I think I broke my ankle.”

“Well, gimp over and give it a try. The cops are on their way, but I don’t how long it’ll be, and I don’t know where those guys went.”

Peter’s head disappeared as he took a look across the rooftop and then quickly popped into view again. It reminded Neal of a game of whack-a-mole. “I don’t see them, but you’re right, we should get out of here. I don’t have my weapon, so you’ll have to cover me.”

Neal nodded and moved to the other corner of the building, keeping his eyes on the space between himself and the other building, vigilant should the bad guys decide to show themselves. He kept Peter’s gun down at his side, but his muscles were tense, ready to take action if it was needed.

He looked up when he heard the iron of the fire escape creaking and saw Peter start to make his way down the four-story building. It was slow going, since he couldn’t put much weight on his injured ankle and had to literally hop from step to step. “Be careful!” Neal said, tense, one eye on Peter’s progress and the other on the street.

“I am,” Peter grunted. “Are those sirens?”

“Are they?” Neal listened. So they were. “About freaking time.”

 “You called for backup?”

“Of course.”

“Nice job.”

“I _can_ adhere to procedure, Peter. Even a high school dropout can understand the FBI field manual.”

“Are we still having this fight?”

“We haven’t _begun_ to have this fight. Now hurry up. The sooner you get down here, the sooner I can get rid of this damn gun.”

Suddenly, the ladder Peter was on pitched sideways as the combination of rusty bolts, decaying bricks and mortar and years of disuse meeting with 200 or so pounds of federal lawman proved to be too much. Neal looked up sharply at the screeching sound of the bolts pulling from the side of the building, saw Peter clutching tightly to the thing.

“Peter!” Neal shouted, and their eyes met, but the ladder shifted again and he fell and Neal was too far away to even try to catch him.

\----

Oh, he could get used to unconsciousness, he really could, Peter thought. It was so calming, blissful. Devoid of glaring lights and aches and pains and dog farts and mortgages. He really wished he could stay, but knew he must not.

The first thing he was aware of were hands, gentle hands on his face, his arm, his throat. Then a voice. Neal's voice. “Peter. Come on, Peter. Wake up, please.” He sounded scared. Neal shouldn’t have to be scared.

Peter opened his eyes to see Neal's too-pale face hovering above his, blue eyes wide, panicked, hair wild. “What happened?” Peter asked.

“You fell off a building.”

“Really? Did it hurt?”

Neal smiled. “I think it must have. Don’t move. The paramedics will be here in a few minutes.” Neal picked up his hand and squeezed it.

Peter squeezed back. Somewhere in his brain, he thought it must be good that he could move his hands. Could he move his feet? He twitched his right foot and felt a stab of pain. “Ow.”

“What?”

“My foot hurts.”

“Yeah, that’d be the broken ankle. Stop moving, seriously.”

“My shoulder –“

“Is probably dislocated.”

Somehow, knowing this made it hurt about 1000 times worse. “Yeah, it is. Ah, Christ!!” Peter moaned, and finally the shock wore off and he was feeling every inch of the long fall he’d taken. He felt Neal tighten his grip on his hand, shake it to get his attention.

“Hey, Peter. It’s OK. Look at me. Look at me, Peter, look at me. The paramedics are arriving now. They’ll be here in a sec, OK?”

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Neal said, and chanced a kiss to the back of Peter’s hand.

Peter nodded, closed his eyes against the pain in his shoulder, which was nearly unbearable. And Neal was right, the paramedics were there, and they seemed to swarm all over him, asking questions, placing a neck brace on him, immobilizing his shoulder and ankle. Finally they moved him onto a back board and onto a stretcher and hauled him to the ambulance.

\----

The scene at the hospital was a whirlwind. Neal was allowed to ride with Peter in the ambulance, holding his hand or squeezing his leg the entire way to keep him calm, answering questions for the doctors and eventually for the police and the FBI. As it turned out, Peter had stumbled upon a meth cooking operation in that building, a fact that their “witness” – and now prime suspect – had known. His assailants were now in custody and the NYPD were on their way to making arrests of the other members of their crew.

Neal was asked to stay in the waiting room until Elizabeth arrived, escorted by Diana. “Honey!” she exclaimed, clutching Neal around his waist. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “What happened?”

Neal related as many of the details of the afternoon to her as he thought she could handle at the moment, leaving out the roof-jumping and the guns, and glossing over the height of the fall. There were things she didn’t need to know right now. “But he’s conscious, and the paramedics didn’t think there were internal injuries or anything. He’s pretty lucky.”

“Oh, only until I get my hands on him,” she said through tears of relief. “Why were you two separated? Didn’t you go with Peter to interview the witness?”

“No, I, uh, stayed in the car,” Neal began, not knowing how to broach the subject of his and Peter’s argument with her, or even if he wanted to. Luckily, he didn’t have to as a doctor approached them with an update.

Elizabeth and Neal were allowed to visit with Peter while he waited to be taken to radiology. They arrived to find him dozing, knocked out by the pain meds he’d been given. He stirred when El took up his hand and smiled loopily at her. “Sweetieeeeeee,” he said happily.

El kissed him on his forehead and told him she loved him.

He smiled at Neal too, when he saw him. “Heeey,” he slurred. “Nice shooting, Sundance.”

“Don’t mention it, Butch. Seriously.” Neal made cutting gestures with his hand but Peter’s eyes were already closed.

“Shooting, ‘ _Sundance’_?” El asked, grabbing Neal by his lapel and giving him the stinkeye.

“Did I fail to mention that? There may have been a few shots exchanged. I, um, needed to cover Peter when he, um...” his voice trailed off.

If it was possible, Elizabeth’s face got even paler. “When he _what_?”

Peter lifted his good hand and made man running and jumping gestures, accompanied by a low whistle for emphasis. Neal put his hand over Peter’s, pushed it down on top of his chest, but El had already seen. “What was that?”

“He might have, uh, jumped from one roof to another,” Neal said, flinching as soon as the words were out.

El’s voice was suddenly unnaturally calm. “Jumped. To. Another. Building.”

“There… may have been… _gunmen_ chasing him.”

El nodded, processing this information. “What is this, Lethal Weapon 12?”

“Heh, I’m getting too old for this shit,” Peter giggled.

“OK, you should just stop,” Neal said to him, but he’d already fallen back to sleep.

Luckily, a nurse arrived to take Peter for his x-ray.

\----

Later that night, Neal watched from the doorway as El sat beside Peter’s bed, her back to him. Despite a concussion, some cracked ribs and the shoulder and ankle injuries, Peter managed to escape any major damage and would be released from the hospital in a few days. Neal's relief was palpable, and El had hugged him tight after the doctor had left, but now he stood and watched his lovers as they settled into the private room, watched over them, but did not join them.

He slipped away and headed down the hall to a small, deserted waiting area and took a seat on one of the couches he found there. He chose this couch for a particular reason; it sat mostly in shadow, particularly after he lowered most of the lights, and faced away from the doorway. He needed to be alone.

The day had been harder than it needed to be, for more reasons than the obvious. Peter’s comment about his lack of an education had cut closer to the quick than Neal had thought it would. If there was one thing Neal would change about himself it was that – not finishing his education had been his constant regret.

He suspected Peter thought he was being funny, but it felt dismissive and hurtful - more than he thought Peter capable.

This is what gave Neal pause, what he needed to work through. He’d enthusiastically thrown himself into this relationship with the Burkes, pleased to be a part of their lives, their magic. He’d quickly (too quickly?) found a happiness and completeness with them that he hadn’t felt in a long time – certainly not since those first, halcyon days with Kate. He hoped it could last forever.

But this incident had given him his first doubts. He was finding it difficult to reconcile Peter’s offhanded and cruel remark with the man who’d shared his bed and his wife these last several months. This was the man who daily brought him his venti soy latte with a double shot of espresso and two Splenda. The man who remembered his hat size. The man who saved him from a fiery death in an exploding jet. And with a single, thoughtless comment, Peter had managed to hurt Neal almost as much as that explosion had, because he had assaulted his sense of worth and worthiness. Neal was hurt and confused and wondered if he could get past it.

Neal shook his head, stood and stretched his long limbs. He walked over to the windows and stared out over the darkening city and considered his next move.

\----

Peter flicked moodily through the channels, searching for something to watch that didn’t involve TV judges or Drew Carey. It was his second day in the hospital and he was feeling the boredom acutely. He settled on a rerun of Law & Order and tried not to mutter at the screen about their lack of adherence to procedure. He shut it off as Elizabeth entered the room and smiled.

“I brought lunch,” she said, hoisting a deli bag and plopping it onto his tray. “Pastrami on rye.”

Peter sighed with contentment and unpacked the bag; she didn’t often allow him cholesterol-laden meats. “Thanks, honey.” He kissed her back when she leaned over and tucked in.

“Has Neal been down today?” El asked lightly.

Peter put his sandwich down and sighed, his appetite suddenly gone. “No.”

“Huh.” Elizabeth had noticed the estrangement between the two of them the last two days and had wondered at it. Neal, though present when her spirits needed lifting, had largely avoided being in Peter’s room except for when he was sleeping. He was uncharacteristically quiet and stayed by himself in a small, dark waiting room at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice low but her words clear.

 “We had a fight. The other day. That’s why he didn’t go into the building with me.”

She picked up the other half of his sandwich and took a bite. “What about?”

Peter couldn’t look at her.

“What did you say?” she asked. Somehow without knowing what the fight had been about, she knew what the fight was about. El knew Peter far too well, knew he could ram his foot in his mouth so completely it required surgical removal. It was a rare occurrence, but she recognized the regret immediately.

“I can’t even tell you, sweetie. It shames me to think about it.”

She blinked. “Oh.” This explained Neal's quiet demeanor the last two days. And his distance. She nodded. “You have to apologize.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? But I’m afraid it won’t be enough, El.”

She stood and kissed him on the forehead. “Make it enough,” she said and left the room to find a soda machine.

\----

Elizabeth found Neal hovering in the hallway outside Peter’s room, hands in his pockets. He had dark circles under his eyes and his shirt was rumpled. She knew now why. She slipped her arm inside his and walked with him to his lair in the waiting room. She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him to her, and he let his arms fall around her, holding her close. They stood that way for several minutes.

Finally, she looked up at him, but he was staring out the window. “Peter told me you two quarreled.”

He stiffened, dropped his arms and stepped away. “Oh?”

“He wouldn’t say what the fight was about, but I know he regrets it.”

“Really?” Neal's voice was neutral, with no inflection.

She nodded. “I think he hurt you a lot, Neal, didn’t he?” He didn’t react, which was confirmation enough, so she went on. “There’s one thing you need to know about Peter, Neal. He is, on rare occasions, a complete and total shithead. And while it is completely up to you whether you choose to forgive him or not, it is eating him up inside that he has hurt you. If you’re willing to forgive, he’s willing to crawl on his belly.”

Neal smiled at that, a little. It provided an interesting visual.

“I don’t want this to be the end of us,” Elizabeth continued, seriously.

“I don’t either,” Neal said and was surprised and relieved to realize he meant it.

She squeezed his arm, then rubbed up and down. “Good. I hope I’ll see you, later? In the room?”

He nodded and she left.

\----

“Lift your chin,” Elizabeth commanded and Peter mutely complied. She applied the shaving soap to his throat, swirling the brush with its stiff bristles in small circles until his entire beard was covered.

It had been three days now since Peter had shaved, and his beard was growing like a weed. With his right shoulder completely immobilized, he couldn’t do it himself. And El, who’d learned the art of shaving at the elbow of her maternal grandfather Lorenzo, a barber, was pretty damn handy with a straight razor.

She draped a hand towel over her left forearm and began on the right side of his face, using her fingertips to tilt his head back. She began at his sideburn, drawing the blade down his face in long, fluid strokes. He enjoyed the sound of it now as he never did when he shaved himself, the slight scraping of the skin, the shearing of whiskers by keen blade. It almost tickled.

She wiped the blade off on the towel and continued along his jaw, being careful around the bruises there, then tilted his head to the opposite side and shaved the long planes of his left cheek and jaw. She wiped the blade off again and hooked her forefinger under his chin, tilted his head back. “Mouth,” she said and he pulled his lips in, making his upper lip more rigid for her. When she was done there, she put her thumb against his lower lip, pulling the skin taut so she could shave his chin.

He hummed deep in his throat, content. It wasn’t often that she took the time to treat him to this. He was under no illusions that it was only because he was injured, but it was still nice.

She tilted his chin up again, pressed his head to the side slightly and concentrated on shaving his throat, wiping the blade once, twice, and finally finishing. She picked up the other towel she’d brought and handed it to him. He wiped the vestiges of the soap off his face and, leaned forward, kissed her tenderly on the lips.

“Well, that might have been the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while,” said Neal from the doorway. He tossed a Raisinet into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Can I be next?”

“Sure,” El said with a smile as he entered the room, relieved to see him return.

“Hey. Neal.” Peter looked at him, tentative, happy to see him but unsure what it meant.

“Hey,” Neal said gently, and took a seat on the bed opposite El. He seemed stiff at first, but eventually relaxed, allowed his leg to touch Peter’s.

“Hughes make you fill out a report on the other day yet?” Peter asked by way of starting a conversation.

Neal flinched at the banality but took it for what it was – first step back to normal. “No. Why do you think I’ve been hiding out here?”

“Good strategy.”

“You know it. And if I put it off long enough, then you’ll have to do it. I’m not stupid.”

They both pulled up at the echo of their argument, but Peter shook it off. “No, not stupid. I probably will.”

Neal nodded, shook it off too. He didn’t want to dredge it up either.

\----

The next day, Peter woke when he could hear himself snoring. This was a strange tendency of his, a side effect of being a light sleeper, he supposed. It was also something his wife and lover appreciated, he was sure. At least they didn’t have to listen to him sawing wood all night.

He sat up on the couch and winced at the soreness between his shoulders. His hospital stay had been anything but restful, and so when Neal had brought him home that morning and he’d settled on the couch, ankle propped on the ottoman, it was only a matter of minutes before he’d fallen asleep. He tried to reach his left hand back to knead at the sore muscles between his shoulder blades but was unsuccessful.

“Everything all right?” Neal asked, entering the room.

“Just a little sore, I guess.”

“Just a little?” Neal smiled at him fondly. “Let me help.” He sat next to Peter on the couch, and began kneading at the muscles of his neck with his right hand.

“Mmmmmm.” Peter moaned a little, closed his eyes.

“Here, can you turn to the side a little? That’s good.” Neal turned too, braced his shin against Peter and started working at the knots in his muscles, finishing what he’d started with Peter’s neck and then working his fingertips between his shoulder blades, along his left trapezius, then more gently along his right, taking care not to jar the healing shoulder.

He worked slowly, his fingertips lingering over Peter’s skin and muscles, warming them, softening them. Peter hung his head low, chin on his chest, and breathed deeply and evenly, enjoying the closeness. How lucky he was, he thought, to have this man to take care of him. To watch out for him. To love him. And he’d almost fucked it all up.

Suddenly overcome by his feelings, Peter sat up, turned to Neal and pulled him to him with his good arm, kissing him deeply. Neal was surprised at first, but soon gave in, returning the kiss with as much enthusiasm as Peter, a happy sigh escaping his lips.

When they parted, Peter guided Neal's head to lie against his shoulder and kissed him on the ear. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“What for?”

“The other day. What I said, I – Neal it was mean and petty and I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I said what I said and I’m so, so sorry.”

“Do we really need to talk about this?” Neal asked. This was the conversation he’d been dreading for days.

“Yeah, I think we need to talk about this.” Peter needed to make it right with Neal, needed to make sure the younger man understood how much he regretted his words.

“OK.” Neal sighed before continuing, “Then I won’t lie to you Peter, what you said hurt me. A lot.”

Peter closed his eyes. He knew his words had been hurtful, but to have it confirmed, to hear the pain in Neal's voice, well, the guilt was nearly smothering him. He wished he could take them back. Wished there was an Undo button for stupid, thoughtless men.

Neal continued. “But not because of what you said, but why.” He pulled away, and Peter hated the cold that rushed against his body to replace him.

Neal couldn’t look at Peter, instead he looked down at his hands and picked at his cuticles. “It made me feel…worth less. Like what I have to say isn’t useful or valuable because I’m not an agent or because I didn’t go to Harvard.”

Peter cupped Neal's cheek with his left hand and Neal looked up at him. Peter had tears in his eyes. “Neal, I regret making you feel like that more than you know. And I want you to know that I value you – so much. More than I can put into words. As much as Elizabeth. And the knowledge that I caused you even the slightest bit of pain kills me. It kills me, Neal, and I wish I could take the words back and I wish I could fix the hurt I caused, but I can’t and all I can really do is beg you to forgive me. Forgive me, Neal, please, please forgive me?”

Neal regarded him for a long minute, and then nodded. He took Peter’s face between his hands and pulled him toward him, planting a kiss on the crown of his head. “I forgive you,” he murmured and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

But there was an undertone in how Neal said it, and Peter heard it loud and clear: “Don’t do it again.” 

\----

Thank you for your time.

  



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